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COPYRIGHT DEPOSED 



THE NAME OF OLD GLORY 



THE 
NAME OF OLD GLORY 

Poems of Patriotism 

By 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



WITH AN APPRECIATION OP THE POET 
BY 

BOOTH TARKINGTON 



FRONTISPIECE 
BY 

HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright 1890, 1891, 1892, 1893, 1894 

1898; 1900, 1902, 1907, 1913 

James Whitcomb Riley 

Copyright, 1917 
Estate of James Whitcomb Riley 



3 

•■'■ ,117 




JUN -4 1917 



PRESS Of 
BRAUNWORTH a CO. 

tOOK MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 



©CI.A482923 



CONTENTS 

Mr. Riley * 7 

An Appreciation by Booth Tarkington 

The Name of Old Glory 21 

America 26 

A Monument for the Soldiers 29 

The Home- Voyage 31 

America's Thanksgiving 33 

Soldiers Here To-day 35 

The Silent Victors 39 

The Soldier 45 

The Voice of Peace 48 

The Old Man and Jim 50 

Grant ? 53 

The Quest of the Fathers 57 

Liberty 60 

The Drum 69 

McFeeters' Fourth 72 

Thoughts on the Late War 75 

Decoration Day on the Place 77 

A Peace-Hymn of the Republic 80 

The Boy Patriot 82 

A Child's Home — Long Ago 84 



5 



MR. RILEY 

HAYES and Wheeler were President and Vice- 
President of these States when Indiana began 
to think and talk more abont James Whitcomb Riley 
than about Hayes and Wheeler. The good, flat State 
had a poet, and her best people (that is, most of 
her people) knew it from the first: they realized 
the happiness and the beauty of the event. To great 
numbers of men and women who remember that 
discovery it is (in their memories) as if they had 
beheld the coming of a new and smiling brightness 
upon everything, like sunshine twinkling over a 
freshly showered landscape. Never gloomy or un- 
friendly people, or reserved with their emotions, the 
Hoosiers were happier, and showed it; they smiled 
of tener : they smiled whenever they spoke his name, 
or when they heard some one else speak it. This is 
not a figure of speech, or decoration, it is the literal 
fact, and the smiles were physical tokens. They 
are still there, moreover, and can be seen by any 
traveler to Indiana who speaks or hears spoken the 
name of James Whitcomb Riley. Nowadays, of 
course, those smiles are not Indiana's alone; they 
have spread to wherever there are children, or 
honest folk who love a poet. 

7 



ME. RILEY 

In Indiana, under Hayes and Wheeler, there was 
a boy of eleven who had been conscious of the name 
of James Whitcomb Riley, for some time : conscious 
that this name was in the air and that a perceptible 
joy went with the speaking of it. He does not to 
this day forget the lively look, the merry fondness 
and prophecy of pleasure, that were in his mother's 
face on a summer morning when she told him that 
Mr. Riley was coming to the house. The boy said: 
' 'James Whitcomb Riley ?" in excitement, though 
he had merely caught the contagion of pleasure with 
which the name was always spoken. And the 
mother, her eyes dancing, said "Yes!" as if she 
cried out news that was good indeed. 

He came, and there was added to the boy's life a 
friendship, instant and perpetual. This miraculous 
fortune was the boy's from that day forth, and 
never ended. And was there ever before or since 
such a fairy friend for a boy? He could draw real 
pictures; he taught the boy to draw pictures; he 
played the guitar; he played the banjo, danced jigs 
and sang them too; he turned "cart wheels" on the 
front lawn in a frock coat, regardless of passers-by, 
and would have taught the boy to turn them if the 
latter had not been so much the clumsier of the two 
that he could never learn. He took the boy for long 
walks and told him of poems and stories that were 
in the making, seeming to consult him with interest 
upon points of artistry; telling him, too, of whim- 
sical adventures and mishaps; of odd people and 
strange things in their lives — and of plays and 

8 



MR. RILEY 

pantomimes and minstrels and circuses. Often, as 
the boy grew older, coming to be more a youth than 
a boy, the walks were by moonshine and would last 
till midnight, when the two would have ice-cream 
and pie — sometimes too much pie — at a restaurant. 
The friendship (except in the boy's worshipful mind) 
seemed to be upon a matter-of-course and demo- 
cratic basis: the poet appearing to have forgotten 
from the first — or never to have perceived — any 
difference between the boy and himself in age, in- 
telligence, reputation, or experience. Thus, one 
night he came to the boy's house in a state of un- 
usual gaiety (he was almost always gayer than 
anybody else) over a book he was going to have 
published — his first book to be printed over his own 
name. It was to be prose, for the greater part; 
short stories, with poems in between^ it was called 
The Boss Girl, after the title of the first story; 
and it must be a rare book now; worth something 
to a collector. That night the poet drew a design 
for the cover, an ink bottle mounted like a cannon 
and firing a charge of ink which formed, in ex- 
plosion, the letters of the title. The poet seemed 
anions to know how the boy liked the design ; and 
the boy, encouraged to add something, drew an imp 
leaning down out of a cloud with a quill pen in his 
hand, the pen firing the touchhole of the ink-bottle 
cannon; and thus the cover was printed and that 
boy insufferably puffed up. 

Sometimes the poet would come to the boy's 
house, and perhaps all afternoon and all evening 

9 



ME. RILEY 

would tell the story of a book lie had read: acting 
the scenes in it, being each character in turn, and 
making the thing so live that the author of it must 
have wept in sheer pride could he have been there. 
The poet would hold the eager little audience of 
that house — the boy's father, mother, sister, and the 
boy himself — sitting on the edges of their chairs by 
the hour; he would keep them chuckling, or send 
them into shouting laughter, or even bring them 
near to weeping ; for he was an incomparable actor, 
the truest, realest comedian this country has known. 
He came to that house almost every Sunday, when 
he was not traveling, for many years; and after- 
ward, though the boy was grown up and even came 
to be middle-aged, he was always a worshipful boy 
when he was with the poet. The poet always called 
him by his first name, while he always called the poet 
* * Mr. Eiley, ' ' and sirred him. 

The truth is, and it should be told, that the poet 
did not like to be known as Jim Eiley. Once, when 
the boy was about sixteen, and they were walking 
together, the poet, apropos of nothing that had been 
said, and after a silence, broke out with mighty em- 
phasis, and to the boy's utter mystification : "I'm not 
Jim Eiley! I'm Mister Eiley!" And he was. He 
would sing an old-time darky song to the guitar, and 
finish it by dancing an intricate little step ; he would 
eut all manner of droll capers, in mimicry; he was 
the very liveliest soul ever known, and the neighbor- 
liest ; but those who understood him best never called 
hiTn "Jim" unless they were related to him or knew 

10 



MR. RILEY 

themselves part of his most intimate life. Never- 
theless, it was natural that a great many people 
liked to think of him and speak of him as "Jim." 
We are so naively ready to confuse the artist with 
his work : people loved Joe Jefferson partly because 
they thought he was like Eip Van Winkle. Thus 
Mr. Eiley seemed to them like the characters he 
built, common and plain and humorous and child- 
like and tender-hearted. So he was — yet he was also 
a great artist and a man of unique distinction, two 
facts sometimes wonderingly suspected by himself; 
and he knew that such a person should not be called 
"Jim Eiley." 

He never outgrew his astonishment that he hap- 
pened to be what he was: "I'm only the reed that 
the whistle blows through," he said, always in sur- 
prise that he, instead of another, had been the reed 
selected by the cosmic musician. He felt that all 
human beings were both marvelous and ignominious, 
and he had his share of gentle pride as a marvel, 
but more than his share of humility as a sample 
of ignominy. He was utterly without egotism. 

Yes, he was a great artist. The words are flaccid 
with overexercise ; "art" and "artist" being now 
part of our prattling of everything under the sun ; 
yet they must serve. We speak of "art and letters" 
— "art and letters," some artists being also men 
of letters, but not a great many men of letters 
being also artists, or comprehending artists, though 
it is a habit of men of letters to sit confidently in 
judgment upon artists. Thus a rhetorician (some- 

11 



MR. RILEY 

thing which any sufficiently studious person may be) 
kindly reconstructed for Thackeray, not long ago, 
the opening sentences of Vanity Fair. The result 
was a school-book kind of thing, with vicious damage 
to picture and cadence, for Thackeray had been 
using words as a painter uses paint, and with a 
musician's ear as well. The man of letters was 
blind and deaf — even to the difference between 
himself and Thackeray; he did not suspect that 
Thackeray knew the " proper' ' rhetorical order (had 
known it, naturally, since his school days) and had 
discarded it for the very reason that it brought 
about that chaste result triumphantly presented by 
the professor. 

An artist is a person who reveals bits of creation 
by re-creating semblances of them in symbols. Men 
of letters are students of the symbols which artists 
of a certain kind — dead literary artists — were wont 
to use. Mr. Eiley, born an artist, became a man of 
letters, though he did not insist that the artists 
whom he studied must be dead. There is almost 
always this difference between a man of letters and 
an artist who has become also a man of letters. 
The man purely of letters will have his artists dead 
(or very foreign) before he so honors them as to 
chop them up into little laws for the living. But the 
artist-man-of-letters cares only for the art and for 
the life it expresses; and he is able to recognize it 
instantly, even when it is the product of a "new 
man." Men who have done great work greet and 
hail the good work of others, but upon the bad work 

12 



MR. RILEY 

of others they usually are silent, except in extreme 
privacy. It was thus with Mr. Riley, for he was a 
poet, and not a mosquito. Neither was he of that 
ingrowing sort of half -artists who cry out passion- 
ately that they " exist to give expression to them- 
selves.' ' His purpose was t6 express life other than 
his own ; and even then he was ' ' only the reed that 
the whistle blew through." 

He could be hurt — hurt badly — but he had no ran- 
cor and repaid no injury. With all the affection 
and applause that answered him from both people 
and press, there were certain mosquito-minded 
critics, a few editorial writers and some reviewers 
(particularly of his early work) who were often 
vicious and sometimes actually personal; — God in 
His heaven couldn't tell why! This is one of the 
most curious and ignominious things in human na- 
ture, but every man whose head seems lifted over 
the heads of his fellows knows that his elevation 
has made certain men and women, strangers to him- 
self, into enemies. They hate him and pursue him 
slyly and malignantly, perhaps for years. Mr. 
Riley had his inevitable allotment of these inexpli- 
cable creatures, and they were successful in making 
him pace the floor now and then. Yes, even he had 
to do his sentry-go, walking off the indignation of 
the man who may safely be insulted since he can not 
retaliate or even answer. 

Then there was an odd folly, prevalent for a long 
time among the more provincial kind of people in 
his own State, These hotly alleged that Mr. Riley's 

13 



MR. RILEY 

dialect poems were injuring Indiana's reputation 
for culture. It seems incredible, but there did exist 
considerable numbers of such people, and they made 
themselves heard. Few of them were true Hoosiers 
of pioneer stock; most of them belonged to feather- 
head breeds from elsewhere, and they were worried 
lest some New York hotel clerk, seeing them write the 
name of an Indiana town upon his register, should 
appraise them as farmers. Edward Eggleston had 
made the East think Indiana unfashionable enough, 
the sufferers alleged bitterly (the East consisting 
principally of some herd-bound Philadelphians en- 
countered at a sea-beach) , and just as the State was 
emerging from the Hoosier Schoolmaster dis- 
aster, Mr. Riley's poems began the ruinous work 
all over again, and every Hoosier ? s life would be one 
long shame if Mr. Riley were encouraged to go on 
writing them. 

Strange that such buzzing could make a great 
man wince! Yet even in his later years the mos- 
quitoes dug in and drew blood sometimes. Once 
when he was ill, and his middle-aged boy friend sat 
by his bedside, the poet drowsed a while, then tossed 
suddenly, flung out an arm, and opened his eyes 
wide, seeing nothing material. He spoke loudly, in 
a sonorous voice of a strange quality unknown to 
the visitor, uttering the word " renown' ' three 
mournful times. "Renown! Renown! Renown V 
he said. "The higher you lift your head the more 
can see to strike it!" 

He could turn at will, however, to some powerful 

14 



MR. BILEY 

consolations. He said, one day: "So long as a 
fellow knows that Howells and Mark Twain think 
well of him, I guess he can stand a good deal from 
other people ! It would be pretty bad if they didn't 
like him, but, as long as they do, he must be pretty 
nearly all right." 

He knew, too, that the* every-day people of the 
country were grateful to him and grateful for him ; 
they felt that he was a gift to them. And in his 
"platform career," during those years when he went 
about the country reading his poems, he saw with 
his eyes and heard with his ears what people 
thought of him. Never any other man stood night 
after night on stage or platform to receive such 
solid roars of applause for the "reading" of poems 
— and for himself. He did not "read" his poems; 
he did not "recite" them, either; he took his whole 
body into his hands, as it were, and by his wizard 
mastery of suggestion left no James Whitcomb 
Eiley at all upon the stage; instead, the audience 
saw and heard whatever the incomparable comedian 
wished them to see and hear. He held a literally 
unmatched power over them for riotous laughter 
or for actual copious tears; and no one who ever 
saw an exhibition of that power will forget it — or 
forget him. There he stood, alone upon the stage, 
a blond, shortish, whimsical man in evening clothes 
— a figure with ' ' a whole lot of style, ' ' and a whole 
lot of its own style too! He offered a deferential 
prefatory sentence or so; then suddenly face and 
figure altered, seemed to merge completely into 

15 



MR. EILEY 

those of a person altogether different from the poet, 
and not Mr. Eiley, but a Hoosier farm hand, per- 
haps, or a thin little girl stood before yon, "done 
to the life." Then the voice came, "done to the 
life,'* too — done to the last half -audible breath at the 
end of husky chuckle or wistful sigh. There was no 
visible effort on the part of the magician ; the audi- 
ence did not strain or worry for him as audiences 
so often do for those who "entertain" them, be- 
cause his craft lay not in contortion but in a glam- 
ouring suggestion that held spectators rapt and 
magnetized. Mr. Nat Goodwin's opinions upon the 
production of realistic pathos in comedy may be 
accepted as academic. Mr. Goodwin said: li I used 
to recite 'Good-by, Jim' — until I heard Eiley do it. 
Then I asked the Lord to forgive me, and never 
tried it again!" 

Even as the poet sat and talked quietly with a 
friend these extraordinary impersonations came 
playing upon the surface of his face and voice ; his 
talk was like quicksilver. He had his melancholies 
and apprehensions, but he chuckled over them 
mournfully, himself, and there never was another 
chuckle so unctuous as his — never! He was the 
only front-rank poet in whom humor was pre- 
dominant. 

. . . That jaunty figure has been missing from 
the shady sidewalks of Indianapolis a long time — six 
years. Spick and span, it was, tail-coated always, 
in a "cutaway," buttoned and trim and point-device, 
with no bagginess to his knees, either; for he was 

16 



MR. RILEY 

a short-haired poet, yet no tea-and-candles poet. 
How often and often we Hoosiers of the capital 
would smile and hasten onr steps to get a lucky 
word with him when we saw him blithely sauntering 
under the maple shade trees, homeward — toward 
Lockerbie Street — that figure best known and loved 
in all the State! 

His head, never stooping, was tilted ever so little 
to one side; and there was always something about 
the poise of his shoulders and in his buoyant step 
that suggested a boy jubilating along with a minstrel 
band — as if he listened in his mind, as he walked, 
to such tunes as minstrel bands play. In fact, I 
think he did, for if you walked behind him, and he 
was unaware, you could nearly always hear him 
half whistling, half breathing an old tune of that 
sort. 

But six years ago the jaunty walk stopped sud- 
denly ; he walked no more. After a time we Hoosiers 
saw him again: a serene face at the window of a 
limousine that was always out so many hours a day 
in the wintry streets and wintry open country; and 
there was the old twinkling response if he saw us, 
and a wave of his hand — his left hand. Or we went 
again to sit by his fireside, and found him crippled, 
but * ' all there, ' ' his body serving him only a little ; 
still we found him jaunty Mr. Riley as of yore. He 
was Doctor Riley now, as well as Mister and Master ; 
he had university degrees and heavy medals of gold 
— portrait by Sargent some time before his illness ; 
many other portraits, some as near him as the 

17 



MR. RILEY 

Sargent — and he was able to go to great banquets 
that notables gave for him on his birthdays. He 
went South for the winter, and in one city ten thou- 
sand school children marched through the rain to 
greet him. 

But now, since the other night, we Ho osiers shall 
not see that face again, not in the daylight, not even 
passing us quickly in the car that we got to know 
so well. It was a face like no other; beneath it lay 
the modeling of the face of Keats, as Severn 
sketched the dying Englishman in Rome; but the 
outward of it was all comedian; solemn in repose, 
like a comedian's, but leaping and sparkling to a 
greeting. No one saw it and forgot it. Nor shall 
we ever forget it; and though we can not see it in 
the daylight again, there will be moonshiny nights 
when we shall see in the distance, under our maple 
trees, a figure walking lightly to the music of an 
unseen minstrel band — the dear and jaunty figure 
of our poet. 

But he is not Indiana's poet. Up and down the 
land the school children keep his birthday, and fret- 
ful scribblers who worried (while yet he lay in state 
in the Hoosier Capitol) lest he were no "true poet" 
may happily cease their fidgeting: the laurel is be- 
stowed by the people. Not even the king can make 
a laureate; the laurel is always bestowed by the 
people. Afterward the universities hear of what has 
happened and protect the wreath. 

James Whitcomb Riley is the American people's 
poet. Mr. Howells called him the National Poet, and 

18 



MR. RILEY 

when Mr, Howells and the nation agree upon a 
question of literature the rest of us may as well 
consider that question officially settled. Mr. Riley 
is sure of his statue. 

America has produced poets who could have been 
English poets, or, translated, French poets, or Ger- 
man ; but Mr. Riley was never anything except Amer- 
ican : translation into other tongues leaves him still 
purely American. Translation could not make one 
of his patriotic poems into a tribute to an emperor 
or a king. For what he loved above all else, through- 
out his life, was the American people ; and he saw the 
great common soul of that people in the symbol of 
the Republic— 4 « Old Glory " ! ' 

Booth Taekington*. 



19 



THE NAME OF OLD GLORY 



THE NAME OF OLD GLORY 

1898 



OLD Glory ! say, who, 
by the ships and the crew, 
And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the 

blue, — 
Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear 
With such pride everywhere 
As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air 
And leap out full-length, as we 're wanting you 

to?— 
WTio gave you that name, with the ring of the same, 
And the honor and fame so becoming to you? — 
Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, 
With your stars at their glittering best overhead — 
By day or by night 
Their delightfulest light 
Laughing down from their little square heaven of 

blue!— 
WTio gave you the name of Old Glory ? — say, who — 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? 

The old banner lifted, and faltering then 
In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again. 

23 



THE NAME OF OLD GLORY 



II 



Old Glory, — speak out! — we are asking about 
How you happened to "favor" a name, so to say, 
That sounds so familiar and careless and gay 
As we cheer it and shout in our wild breezy way — 
We — the crowd, every man of us, calling you that — 
We — Tom, Dick, and Harry — each swinging his hat 
And hurrahing ' ' Old Glory ! ' ' like you were our kin, 
When — Lord! — we all know we're as common as 

sin! 
And yet it just seems like you humor us all 
And waft us your thanks, as we hail you and fall 
Into line, with you over us, waving us on 
Where our glorified, sanctified betters have gone. — 
And this is the reason we're wanting to know — 
(And we're wanting it so! — 
Where our own fathers went we are willing to 

go.)— 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory — Oho ! — 

Who gave you the name of Old Glory? 

The old flag unfurled with a billowy thrill 

For an instant, then wistfully sighed and was still. 



Ill 



Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear 

Is what the plain facts of your christening were,- 

24 



THE NAME OF OLD GLORY 

For your name — just to hear it, 
Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit 
As salt as a tear; — 

And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, 
There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye 
And an aching to live for you always — or die, 
If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. 
And so, by our love 
For you, floating above, 

And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why 
Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory! 

Then the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast, 
And fluttered an audible answer at last. — 



IV 

And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it 

said : — 
By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red 
Of my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead — 
By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, 
As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast, 
Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod, — 
My name is as old as the glory of God. 

... So I came by the name of Old Glory. 



25 



AMERICA 

BUFFALO, NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 14, 1901 

Thou, America — Messiah of Nations! 



N the need that bows us thus, 

America ! 
Shape a mighty song for us — 

America ! 
Song to whelm a hundred years' 
Roar of wars and rain of tears 
'Neath a world's triumphant cheers: 

America! America! 



II 



Lift the trumpet to thy mouth, 
America ! 

East and West and North and South- 
America ! 

Call us round the dazzling shrine 

Of the starry old ensign — 

New baptized in blood of thine, 
America! America! 

26 



AMERICA 



in 



Dying eyes through pitying mists, 

America ! 
See the Assassin's shackled wrists, 

America ! 
Patient eyes that turn their sight 
From all blackening crime and blight 
Still toward Heaven's holy light — 

America! America! 



IV 

High o'erlooking sea and land, 

America ! 
Trustfully with outheld hand, 

America ! 
Thou dost welcome all in quest 
Of thy freedom, peace and rest — 
Every exile is thy guest, 

America! America! 



Thine a universal love, 

America ! 
Thine the cross and crown thereof, 

America ! 



27 



AMERICA 

Aid us, then, to sing thy worth: 
God hath builded, from thy birth, 
The first nation of the earth — 
America! America! 



28 



A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS 

A MONUMENT for the Soldiers ! 
And what will ye build it of ? 
Can ye bnild it of marble, or brass, or bronze, 

Outlasting the Soldier's love? 
Can ye glorify it with legends 

As grand as their blood hath writ 
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine 
To the outermost verge of it? 

And the answer came: We would build it 

Out of our hopes made sure, 
And out of our purest prayers and tears, 

And out of our faith secure: 
We would build it out of the great white truths 

Their death hath sanctified, 
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, 

And their faces ere they died. 

And what heroic figures 

Can the sculptor carve in stone? 
Can the marble breast be made to bleed, 

And the marble lips to moan? 
Can the marble brow be fevered? 

And the marble eyes be graved 
To look their last, as the flag floats past, 

On the country they have saved? 

29 



A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS 

And the answer came: The figures 

Shall all be fair and brave, 
And, as befitting, as pure and white 

As stars above their grave! 
The marble lips, and breast and brow 

Whereon the laurel lies, 
Bequeath us right to guard the flight 

Of the old flag in the skies! 

A monument for the Soldiers ! 

Built of a people's love, 
And blazoned and decked and panoplied 

With the hearts ye build it of! 
And see that ye build it stately, 

In pillar and niche and gate, 
And high in pose as the souls of those 

It would commemorate ! 



30 



THE HOME-VOYAGE 

GENERAL HENRY W. LAWTON — FELL AT SAN MATEO, 
DECEMBER 19, 1899. IN STATE, INDIAN- 
APOLIS, FEBRUARY 6, 1900 

BEAR with us, Great Captain, if our pride 
Show equal measure with our grief's excess 
In greeting you in this your helplessness 
To countermand our vanity or hide 
Your stern displeasure that we thus had tried 
To praise you, knowing praise was your distress : 
But this home-coming swells our hearts no less — 
Because for love of home you proudly died. 
Lo! then, the cable, fathoms 'neath the keel 
That shapes your course, is eloquent of you; 
The old flag, too, at half-mast overhead — 
We doubt not that its gale-kissed ripples feel 
A prouder sense of red and white and blue, — 
The stars — Ah, God, were they interpreted! 

In strange lands were your latest honors won — 
In strange wilds, with strange dangers all beset; 
With rain, like tears, the face of day was wet, 
As rang the ambushed foeman's fateful gun: 
And as you felt your final duty done, 

31 



THE HOME- VOYAGE 

We feel that glory thrills your spirit yet, — 
When at the front, in swiftest death, you met 
The patriots doom and best reward in one. 
And so the tumult of that island war, 
At last, for you, is stilled forevermore — 

Its scenes of blood blend white as ocean foam 
On your rapt vision as you sight afar 

The sails of peace, and from that alien shore 
The proud ship bears you on your voyage 
home. 

Or rough or smooth the wave, or lowering day 
Or starlit sky — you hold, by native right, 
Your high tranquillity — the silent might 

Of the true hero — so you led the way 

To victory through stormiest battle-fray, 
Because your followers, high above the fight, 
Heard your soul's lightest whisper bid them smite 

For God and man and space to kneel and pray. 

And thus you cross the seas unto your own 

Beloved land, convoyed with honors meet, 

Saluted as your home's first heritage — 

Nor salutation from your State alone, 
But all the States, gathered in mighty fleet, 
Dip colors as you move to anchorage, 



82 



AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING 
1900 

FATHER all bountiful, in mercy bear 
With this our universal voice of prayer — 
The voice that needs must be 
Upraised in thanks to Thee, 
O Father, from Thy children everywhere. 

A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain 
Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain- 
No murmur of distress, 
Nor moan of loneliness, 
Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain. 

And, Father, give us first to comprehend, 
No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lend 
Us clearer sight to see 
Our boundless debt to Thee, 
Since all Thy deeds are blessings, in the end. 

And let us feel and know that, being Thine, 

We are inheritors of hearts divine, 

And hands endowed with skill, 
And strength to work Thy will, 

And fashion to fulfilment Thy design. 

33 



AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING 

So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside, 
Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride ; 
As here to Thee we dare 
Uplift our faltering prayer, 
Lend it some fervor of the glorified. 

We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee 
The blessed home of thrift and industry, 

With ever-open door 

Of welcome to the poor — 
Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly. 

E 'en thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew 

Into a right that heroes battled to, 

With brothers long estranged, 
Once more as brothers ranged 

Beneath the red and white and starry blue. 

Ay, thanks — though tremulous the thanks 

expressed — 
Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best — 

For all the clanging fray 

Whose discord dies away 
Into a pastoral-song of peace and rest 



34 



SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY 



SOLDIERS and saviors of the homes we love ; 
Heroes and patriots who marched away, 
And who marched back, and who marched on 
above — 
All — all are here to-day! 

By the dear cause yon fonght for — you are here; 

At summons of bugle, and the drum 
Whose palpitating syllables were ne'er 
More musical, you come! 

Here — by the stars that bloom in the fields of blue, 

And by the bird above with shielding wings ; 
And by the flag that floats out over you, 
With silken beckonings — 

Ay, here beneath its folds are gathered all 
Who warred unscathed for blessings that it 
gave — 
Still blessed its champion, though it but fall 
A shadow on his grave ! 

35 



SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY 



n 



We greet you, Victors, as in vast array 
You gather from the scenes of strife and 
death — 
From spectral fortress-walls where curls away 
The cannon's latest breath. 



We greet you — from the crumbling battlements 
Where once again the old flag feels the breeze 
Stroke out its tattered stripes and smooth its rents 
With rippling ecstasies. 



From living tombs where every hope seemed 
lost — 
With famine quarantined by bristling guns — 
The prison-pens — the guards — the " dead-line' ' 
crossed 
By — riddled skeletons ! 



From furrowed plains, sown thick with bursting 
shells — 
From mountain gorge, and toppling crags 
o 'erhead — 
From wards of pestilential hospitals, 
And trenches of the dead. 

36 



SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY 



m 



In fancy all are here. The night is o'er, 
And through dissolving mists the morning 
gleams ; 
And clustered round their hearths we see once 
more 
The heroes of our dreams. 

Strong, tawny faces, some, and some are fair, 
And some are marked with age's latest prime, 
And, seer-like, browed and aureoled with hair 
As hoar as winter-time. 

The faces of fond lovers, glorified — 

The faces of the husband and the wife — 
The babe's face nestled at the mother's side, 
And smiling back at life ; 

A bloom of happiness in every cheek — 
A thrill of tingling joy in every vein — 
In every soul a rapture they will seek 
In Heaven, and find again! 

IV 

'Tis not a vision only — we who pay 

But the poor tribute of our praises here 
Are equal sharers in the guerdon they 
Purchased at price so dear. 

37 



SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY 

The angel, Peace, o'er all uplifts her hand, 

Waving the olive, and with heavenly eyes 
Shedding a light of love o'er sea and land 
As sunshine from the skies. 

Her figure pedestaled on Freedom's soil — 

Her sandals kissed with seas of golden grain — 
Queen of a realm of joy-requited toil 
That glories in her reign. 

blessed land of labor and reward! 

gracious Euler, let Thy reign endure; 
In pruning-hook and plough-share beat the sword, 
And reap the harvest sure! 



38 



THE SILENT VICTORS 
May 30, 1878 

I 

DEEP, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart 
Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, 
Who in grim Battle's drama played their part, 
And slumber here to-day. — 

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine 
Of Freedom, while our country held its breath 

As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line 
And marched upon their death: 

When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds scarce 
healed, 

Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again 
To shudder in the storm of battle-field — 

The elements of men, — 

When every star that glittered was a mark 
For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar 

Of red and white was sullied with the dark 
And purple stain of war: 

39 



THE SILENT VICTORS 

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, 
Were howling o'er their gory feast of lives, 

And sending dismal echoes far away 
To mothers, maids, and wives: — 

The mother, kneeling in the empty night, 
With pleading hands uplifted for the son 

Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight — 
The victory had won: 

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say 
The babe was waiting for the sire's caress — 

The letter meeting that upon the way, — 
The babe was fatherless: 

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed 
Against the brow once dewy with her breath, 

Now, lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed 
Save by the dews of death. 



II 



What meed of tribute can the poet pay 
The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine 

Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day 
In epitaph design? — 

Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows 
That ache no longer with a dream of fame, 

But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, 
Renowned beyond the name. 

40 



THE SILENT VICTORS 

The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, 
And tender morning with her shining hand 

May brush them from the grasses green and tall 
That undulate the land. — 

Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, 
Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, 

Can yield us hope the Hero's head to lift 
Out of its dreamless sleep : 

The dear old Flag, whose faintest flutter flies 
A stirring echo through each patriot breast, 

Can never coax to life the folded eyes 
That saw its wrongs redressed — 

That watched it waver when the fight was hot, 
And blazed with newer courage to its aid, 

Begardless of the shower of shell and shot 
Through which the charge was made; — 

And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, 
Like some proud bird in stormy element, 

And soar untrammeled on its wanderings, 
They closed in death, content. 



Ill 

Mother, you who miss the smiling face 

Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, 

And left you weeping o'er the vacant place 
He used to fill at night, — 

41 



THE SILENT VICTORS 

Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day 
That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns 

That drowned the farewell words you tried to say 
To incoherent ones; — 

Be glad and proud you had the life to give — 
Be comforted through all the years to come, — 

Your country has a longer life to live, 
Your son a better home. 

Widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child, 
Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send 

A keener pang to grief unreconciled, — 
Teach him to comprehend 

He had a father brave enough to stand 
Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun, 

That, dying, he might will the rich old land 
Of Freedom to his son. 

And, Maiden, living on through lonely years 

In fealty to love's enduring ties, — 
With strong faith gleaming through the tender 
tears 

That gather in your eyes, 

Look up ! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, 
Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host: — 

1 see your Angel-soldier pacing there, 
Expectant at his post. — 

42 



THE SILENT VICTOES 

I see the rank and file of armies vast, 
That muster under one supreme control; 

I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast — 
The calling of the roll — 

The grand divisions falling into line 
And forming, under voice of One alone 

Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine 
The hymn that shakes the Throne. 

IV 

And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest 
In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom 

And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, 
In silence o'er the tomb. 

With reverent hands we twine the Hero's wreath 
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone 

That stands the sentinel for each beneath 
Whose glory is our own. 

While in the violet that greets the sun, 
We see the azure eye of some lost boy; 

And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one 
We kissed in childish joy, — 

Eecalling, haply, when he marched away, 

He laughed his loudest though his eyes were 
wet. — 

The kiss he gave his mother's brow that day 
Is there and burning yet: 

43 



THE SILENT VICTORS 

And through the storm of grief around her tossed, 
One ray of saddest comfort she may see, — 

Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost 
To weeping Liberty. 

••••••••• 

But draw aside the drapery of gloom, 

And let the sunshine chase the clouds away 

And gild with brighter glory every tomb 
We decorate to-day: 

And in the holy silence reigning round, 
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, 

Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, 
Thank God that Peace is here! 

And let each angry impulse that may start, 
Be smothered out of every loyal breast; 

And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, 
Let every sorrow rest. 



44 



THE SOLDIER 

THE DEDICATION OF THE SOLDIERS* AND SAILORS* 
MONUMENT, INDIANAPOLIS, MAY 15, 1902 

THE Soldier ! — meek the title, yet divine : 
Therefore, with reverence as with wild 
acclaim, 
We fain would honor in exalted line 

The glorious lineage of the glorious name: 
The Soldier. — Lo, he ever was and is, 

Our Country's high custodian, by right 
Of patriot blood that brims that heart of his 
With fiercest love, yet honor infinite. 

The Soldier — within whose inviolate care 

The Nation takes repose, — her inmost fane 
Of Freedom ever has its guardian there, 

As have her forts and fleets on land and main : 
The Heavenward Banner, as its ripples stream 

In happy winds, or float in languid flow, 
Through silken meshes ever sifts the gleam 

Of sunshine on its Sentinel below. 

The Soldier ! — Why, the very utterance 
Is music — as of rallying bugles, blent 

With blur of drums and cymbals and the chants 
Of battle-hymns that shake the continent! — 

45 



THE SOLDIER 

The thunder-chorus of a world is stirred 

To awful, universal jubilee, — 
Yet ever through it, pure and sweet, are heard 

The prayers of Womanhood, and Infancy. 

Even as a fateful tempest sudden loosed 

Upon our senses, so our thoughts are blown 
Back where The Soldier battled, nor refused 

A grave all nameless in a clime unknown. — 
The Soldier — though, perchance, worn, old and 
gray; 

The Soldier — though, perchance, the merest 
lad, — 
The Soldier — though he gave his life away, 

Hearing the shout of " Victory,' ' was glad; 

Ay, glad and grateful, that in such a cause 

His veins were drained at Freedom's holy 
shrine — 
Eechristening the land — as first it was, — 

His blood poured thus in sacramental sign 
Of new baptism of the hallowed name 

"My Country" — now on every lip once more 
And blest of God with still enduring fame. — 

This thought even then The Soldier gloried 
o'er. 

The dying eyes upraised in rapture there, — 
As, haply, he remembered how a breeze 

Once swept his boyish brow and tossed his hair, 
Under the fresh bloom of the orchard-trees — 

46 



THE SOLDIER 

When his heart hurried, in some wistful haste 
Of ecstasy, and his quick breath was wild 

And balmy-sharp and chilly-sweet to taste, — 
And he towered godlike, though a trembling 
child! . 

Again, through luminous mists, he saw the skies' 

Far fields white-tented; and in gray and blue 
And dazzling gold, he saw vast armies rise 

And fuse in fire — from which, in swiftest view, 
The Old Flag soared, and friend and foe as one 

Blent in an instant's vivid mirage. . . . Then 
The eyes closed smiling on the smiling sun 

That changed the seer to a child again. — 

And, even so, The Soldier slept. — Our own! — 

The Soldier of our plaudits, flowers and 
tears, — 
this memorial of bronze and stone — 

His love shall outlast this a thousand years! 
Yet, as the towering symbol bids us do, — 

With soul saluting, as salutes the hand, 
We answer as The Soldier answered to 

The Captain's high command.. 



47 



THE VOICE OF PEACE 

INDEPENDENCE BELL: INDIANAPOLIS, NOVEMBER 

17, 1904 

HP HOUGH now forever still 
*■ Your voice of jubilee — 
We hear — we hear, and ever will, 

The Bell of Liberty! 
Clear as the voice to them 

In that far night agone 
Pealed from the heavens o'er Bethlehem, 

The voice of Peace peals on ! 

Stir all your memories up, 

Independence Bell, 
And pour from your inverted cup 

The song we love so well! 
As you rang in the dawn 

Of Freedom — tolled the knell 
Of Tyranny, — ring on — ring on — 

Independence Bell! 

King numb the wounds of wrong 
Unhealed in brain and breast; 

With music like a slumber-song 
Lull tearful eyes to rest. — 

48 



THE VOICE OF PEACE 

Eing! Independence Bell! 

Eing on till worlds to be 
Shall listen to the tale you tell 

Of Love and Liberty! 



49 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

OLD man never had much to say — 
'Ceptin' to Jim, — 
And Jim was the wildest boy he had — 

And the old man jes' wrapped np in him! 
Never heerd him speak but once 
Er twice in my life, — and first time was 
When the army broke out, and Jim he went, 
The old man backin' him, fer three months; 
And all 'at I heerd the old man say 
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — 
"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 



'Peared-like, he was more satisfied 

Jes' lookin' at Jim 
And likm' him all to hisse'f-like, see? — 

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him! 
And over and over I mind the day 
The old man come and stood round in the way 
While we was drilling a-watchin' Jim — 
And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say, 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 

50 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Never was nothin , about the farm 

Disting'ished Jim; 
Neighbors all ust to wonder why 

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him: 
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had 
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, 
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad — 
'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, — 
The old man wound up a letter to him 
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: "Tell Jim 

Good-by, 
And take keer of hisse'f !" 



Jim come home jes' long enough 

To take the whim 
'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! 
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, 
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. 
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised, 
And f ollered him over to Camp Ben Wade, 
And laid around fer a week er so, 
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade — 
Tel finally he rid away, 
And last he heerd was the old man say, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 

51 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Tuk the papers, the old man did, 

A-watchin' fer Jim — 
Fully believin' he'd make his mark 

Some way — jes' wrapped up in him! — 
And many a time the word 'u'd come 
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum — 
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where 
Jim rid right into their cannons there, 
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, 
And socked it home to the boys in gray 
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on — 
Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone, 
And the old man's words in his mind all day,- 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f!" 



Think of a private, now, perhaps, 

We'll say like Jim, 
'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! 
Think of him — with the war plum' through, 
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin' the news down over Jim, 
And the old man, bendin' over him — 
The surgeon turnin' away with tears 
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years, 
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
His father's, the old voice in his ears, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f!" 

52 



GEANT 

AT BEST — AUGUST 8, 1885 

Sir Launcelot rode overtluvart and endlong in a 
wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure 
led him. . . . And he returned and came again to 
his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and 
let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirdled 
his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his 
shield before the cross. — Age of Chivaley. 

V17"HAT shall we say of the soldier, Grant, 
™ " His sword put by and his great soul free? 
How shall we cheer him now or chant 

His requiem befittingly? 
The fields of his conquest now are seen 

Eanged no more with his armed men — 
But the rank and file of the gold and green 

Of the waving grain is there again. 

Though his valiant life is a nation's pride, 
And his death heroic and half divine, 

And our grief as great as the world is wide, 
There breaks in speech but a single line: — 

53 



GEANT 

We loved him living, revere him dead! — 

A silence then on our lips is laid: 
We can say no thing that has not been said, 

Nor pray one prayer that has not been 
prayed. 

But a spirit within us speaks: and lo, 

We lean and listen to wondrous words 
That have a sound as of winds that blow, 

And the voice of waters and low of herds; 
And we hear, as the song flows on serene, 

The neigh of horses, and then the beat 
Of hooves that scurry o'er pastures green, 

And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet. 

A brave lad, wearing a manly brow, 

Knit as with problems of grave dispute, 
And a face, like the bloom of the orchard 
bough, 

Pink and pallid, but resolute; 
And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom, 

And fresh it gleams as the morning dew, 
As he reins his steed where the quick quails 
boom 

Up from the grasses he races through. 

And ho! as he rides what dreams are his? 

And what have the breezes to suggest? — 
Do they whisper to him of shells that whiz 

O'er fields made ruddy with wrongs re- 
dressed? 

54 



GRANT 

Does the hawk above him an Eagle float? 

Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high, 
Hearing the ribbon about his throat 

Flap as a Flag as the winds go by? 

And does he dream of the Warrior's fame — 

This western boy in his rustic dress? 
For, in miniature, this is the man that came 

Biding out of the Wilderness ! — 
The selfsame figure — the knitted brow — 

The eyes full steady — the lips full mute — 
And the face, like the bloom of the orchard 
bough, 

Pink and pallid, but resolute. 

Ay, this is the man, with features grim 

And stoical as the Sphinx's own, 
That heard the harsh guns calling him, 

As musical as the bugle blown, 
When the sweet spring heavens were clouded 
o'er 

With a tempest, glowering and wild, 
And our country's flag bowed down before 

Its bursting wrath as a stricken child. 

Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred, 
He loosed his bridle and dashed away ! — 

Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard, 
Like the shriek of the fife his charger's 
neigh ! 

55 



GRANT 

And over his shoulder and backward blown, 
We heard his voice, and we saw the sod 

Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own 
As though hurled on by the hand of God! 

And still, in fancy, we see him ride 

In the blood-red front of a hundred frays, 
His face set stolid, but glorified 

As a knight's of the old Arthurian days: 
And victor ever as courtly, too, 

Gently lifting the vanquished foe, 
And staying him with a hand as true 

As dealt the deadly avenging blow. 

So, brighter than all of the cluster of stars 

Of the flag enshrouding his form to-day, 
His face shines forth from the grime of wars 

With a glory that shall not pass away: 
He rests at last: he has borne his part 

Of salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers — 
But the sobs of his country's heart, 

And the driving rain of a nation's tears! 



56 



THE QUEST OF THE FATHERS 

YX7HAT were our Forefathers trying to find 
* * When they weighed anchor, that desperate 

hour 
They turned from home, and the warning wind 

Sighed in the sails of the old Mayflower? 
What sought they that could compensate 

Their hearts for the loved ones left behind — 
The household group at the glowing grate? — 
What were our Forefathers trying to find? 

What were they trying to find more dear 

Than their native land and its annals old, — 
Its throne — its church — and its worldly cheer — 

Its princely state, and its hoarded gold? 
What more dear than the mounds of green 

There o'er the brave sires, slumbering long? 
What more fair than the rural scene — 

What more sweet than the throstle's song? 

Faces pallid, but sternly set, 

Lips locked close, as in voiceless prayer, 
And eyes with never a tear-drop wet — 

Even the tenderest woman's there! 

57 



THE QUEST OF THE FATHERS 

But the light from the soul within, 

As each spake each with a flashing mind — 

As the lightning speaks to its kith and kin! 
What w T ere our Forefathers trying to find? 



Argonauts of a godless day — 

Seers of visions, and dreamers vain! 
Their ship's foot set in a pathless way, — 

The fogs, the mists, and the blinding rain! — 
When the gleam of sun, and moon and star 

Seemed lost so long they were half forgot — 
When the fixed eyes found nor near nor far, 

And the night whelmed all, and the world was not. 



And yet, befriended in some strange wise, 

They groped their way in the storm and stress 
Through which — though their look found not the 
skies — 

The Lord's look found them ne'ertheless — 
Found them, yea, in their piteous lot, 

As they in their faith from the first divined — 
Found them, and favored them — too. But what — 

What were our Forefathers trying to find? 



Numb and agasp, with the frost for breath, 
They came on a frozen shore, at last, 

As bleak and drear as the coasts of death, — 
And yet their psalm o'er the wintry blast 

58 



THE gUEST OF THE FATHERS 

Bang glad as though 'twere the chiming mirth 
Of jubilant children landing there — 

Until o'er all of the icy earth 
The snows seeined warm, as they knelt in prayer. 



For, lo ! they were close on the trail they sought :— 

In the sacred soil of the rights of men 
They marked where the Master-hand had wrought; 

And there they garnered and sowed again.— 
Their land— then ours, as to-day it is, 

With its flag of heaven's own light designed, 
And God's vast love o'er all. . . . And this 

Is what our Forefathers were trying to find. 



69 



LIBERTY 
I 

T^OR a hundred years the pulse of time 

-*• Has throbbed for Liberty ; 

For a hundred years the grand old clime 
Columbia has been free; 
For a hundred years our country's love, 
The Stars and Stripes, has waved above. 



Away far out on the gulf of years — 

Misty and faint and white 
Through the fogs of wrong — a sail appears, 
And the Mayflower heaves in sight, 
And drifts again, with its little flock 
Of a hundred souls, on Plymouth Rock. 



Do you see them there — as long, long since — 

Through the lens of History; 
Do you see them there as their chieftain prints 
In the snow his bended knee, 
And lifts his voice through the wintry blast 
In thanks for a peaceful home at last? 

60 



LIBERTY 

Though the skies are dark and the coast is bleak, 

And the storm is wild and fierce, 
Its frozen flake on the upturned cheek 
Of the Pilgrim 'melts in tears, 
And the dawn that springs from the darkness 

there 
Is the morning light of an answered prayer. 

The morning light of the day of Peace 

That gladdens the aching eyes, 
And gives to the soul that sweet release 
That the present verifies, — 
Nor a snow so deep, nor a wind so chill 
To quench the flame of a freeman's will! 



II 



Days of toil when the bleeding hand 

Of the pioneer grew numb, 
When the untilled tracts of the barren land 
Where the weary ones had come 

Could offer nought from a fruitful soil 

To stay the strength of the stranger's toil. 

Days of pain, when the heart beat low, 

And the empty hours went by 
Pitiless, with the wail of woe 
And the moan of Hunger's cry — 

When the trembling hands upraised in prayer 
Had only the strength to hold them there. 

61 



LIBERTY 

Days when the voice of hope had fled — 

Days when the eyes grown weak 
Were folded to, and the tears they shed 
Were frost on a frozen cheek — 
When the storm bent down from the skies 

and gave 
A shroud of snow for the Pilgrim's grave. 

Days at last when the smiling sun 

Glanced down from a summer sky, 
And a music rang where the rivers run, 
And the waves went laughing by; 

And the rose peeped over the mossy bank 
While the wild deer stood in the stream and 
drank. 

And the birds sang out so loud and good, 

In a symphony so clear 
And pure and sweet that the woodman stood 
With his ax upraised to hear, 
And to shape the words of the tongue unknown 
Into a language all his own: — 



Sing! every bird, to-day! 

Sing for the shy so clear, 

And the gracious breath of the atmosphere 
Shall waft our cares away, 

62 



LIBERTY 



Sing! sing! for the sunshine free; 
Sing through the land from sea to sea; 
Lift each voice in the highest hey 
And sing' for Liberty! 



Sing for the arms that fling 

Their fetters in the dust 

And lift their hands in higher trust 
Unto the one Great King; 
Sing for the patriot heart and hand; 
Sing for the country they have planned; 
Sing that the world may understand 
This is Freedom's land! 



Sing in the tones of prayer, 

Sing till the soaring soul 

Shall float above the ivorld's control 
In Freedom everywhere! 
Sing for the good that is to be, 
Sing for the eyes that are to see 
The land where man at last is free, 
sing for Liberty! 



63 



LIBERTY 

III 

A holy quiet reigned, save where the hand 

Of labor sent a murmur through the land, 

And happy voices in a harmony 

Taught every lisping breeze a melody. 

A nest of cabins, where the smoke upcurled 

A breathing incense to the other world. 

A land of languor from the sun of noon, 

That fainted slowly to the pallid moon, 

Till stars, thick-scattered in the garden-land 

Of Heaven by the great Jehovah's hand, 

Had blossomed into light to look upon 

The dusky warrior with his arrow drawn, 

As skulking from the covert of the night 

With serpent cunning and a fiend's delight, 

With murderous spirit, and a yell of hate 

The voice of Hell might tremble to translate: 

When the fond mother's tender lullaby 

Went quavering in shrieks all suddenly, 

And baby-lips were dabbled with the stain 

Of crimson at the bosom of the slain, 

And peaceful homes and fortunes ruined — lost 

In smoldering embers of the holocaust. 

Yet on and on, through years of gloom and strife, 

Our country struggled into stronger life; 

Till colonies, like footprints in the sand, 

Marked Freedom's pathway winding through the 

land — 
And not the footprints to be swept away 
Before the storm we hatched in Boston Bay, — 

64 



LIBERTY 

But footprints where the path of war begun 
That led to Bunker Hill and Lexington, — 
For he who " dared to lead where others dared 
To follow' ' found the promise there declared 
Of Liberty, in blood of Freedom's host 
Baptized to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 



Oh, there were times when every patriot breast 

Was riotous with sentiments expressed 

In tones that swelled in volume till the sound 

Of lusty war itself was well-nigh drowned. 

Oh, those were times when happy eyes with tears 

Brimmed o'er as all the misty doubts and fears 

Were washed away, and Hope with gracious mien, 

Reigned from her throne again a sovereign queen. 

Until at last, upon a day like this 

When flowers were blushing at the summer's kiss, 

And when the sky was cloudless as the face 

Of some sweet infant in its angel grace, — 

There came a sound of music, thrown afloat 

Upon the balmy air — a clanging note 

Reiterated from the brazen throat 

Of Independence Bell: A sound so sweet, 

The clamoring throngs of people in the streets 

Were stilled as at the solemn voice of prayer, 

And heads were bowed, and lips were moving there 

That made no sound — until the spell had passed, 

And then, as when all sudden comes the blast 

Of some tornado, came the cheer on cheer 

Of every eager voice, while far and near 

65 



LIBEETY 



The echoing bells upon the atmosphere 
Set glorious rumors floating, till the ear 
Of every listening patriot tingled clear, 
And thrilled with joy and jubilee to hear. 



Stir all your echoes up, 

Independence Bell, 
And pour from your inverted cup 

The song we love so well. 

Lift high your happy voice, 
And swing your iron tongue 

Till syllables of praise rejoice 
That never yet were sung. 

Ring in the gleaming dawn 

Of Freedom — Toll the knell 
Of Tyranny, and then ring on, 

Independence Bell. — 

Ring on, and drown the moan 

Above the patriot slain, 
Till sorrow's voice shall catch the tone 

And join the glad refrain. 

Ring out the wounds of wrong 

And rankle in the breast; 
Your music like a slumber-song 

Will lull revenge to rest, 

66 



LIBERTY 

Ring out from Occident 

To Orient, and peal 
From continent to continent 

The mighty jog you feel. 

Ring! Independence Bell! 

Ring on till worlds to be 
Shall listen to the tale you tell 

Of love and Liberty! 



IV 



Liberty — the dearest word 
A bleeding country ever heard, — 
We lay our hopes upon thy shrine 
And offer up our lives for thine. 
You gave us many happy years 
Of peace and plenty ere the tears 
A mourning country wept were dried 
Above the graves of those who died 
Upon thy threshold. And again 
When newer wars were bred, and men 
Went marching in the cannon's breath 
And died for thee and loved the death, 
While, high above them, gleaming bright, 
The dear old flag remained in sight, 
And lighted up their dying eyes 
With smiles that brightened paradise. 
O Liberty, it is thy power 
To gladden us in every hour 

67 



LIBERTY 

Of gloom, and lead us by thy hand 

As little children through a land 

Of bud and blossom; while the days 

Are filled with sunshine, and thy praise 

Is warbled in the roundelays 

Of joyous birds, and in the song 

Of waters, murmuring along 

The paths of peace, whose flowery fringe 

Has roses finding deeper tinge 

Of crimson, looking on themselves 

Reflected — leaning from the shelves 

Of cliff and crag and mossy mound 

Of emerald splendor shadow-drowned. — 

We hail thy presence, as you come 

With bugle blast and rolling drum, 

And booming guns and shouts of glee 

Commingled in a symphony 

That thrills the worlds that throng to see 

The glory of thy pageantry. 

And with thy praise, we breathe a prayer 

That God who leaves you in our care 

May favor us from this day on 

With thy dear presence — till the dawn 

Of Heaven, breaking on thy face, 

Lights up thy first abiding place. 



68 



THE DETTM 

OTHE drum! 
There is some 

Intonation in thy grum 
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, 
As we hear, 

Through the clear 

And unclouded atmosphere, 
Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear! 

There's a part 
Of the art 

Of thy music-throbbing heart 
That thrills a something in us that awakens with a 

start, 
And in rhyme 

With the chime 

And exactitude of time, 
Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime. 

And the guest 

Of the breast 

That thy rolling robs of rest 
Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed; 

69 



THE DRUM 

And he looms 

From the glooms 

Of a century of tombs, 
And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living 
beauty blooms. 



And his eyes 

Wear the guise 

Of a purpose pure and wise, 
As the love of them is lifted to a something in the 

skies 
That is bright 

Bed and white, 

With a blur of starry light, 
As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and 
night. 



There are deep 

Hushes creep 

O'er the pulses as they leap, 
As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls 

asleep, 
While the prayer 
Kising there 

Wills the sea and earth and air 
As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daughters 
everywhere. 

70 



THE DRUM 

Then, with sound 
As profound 

As the .thunderings resound, 
Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes 

the ground, 
And a cry- 
Flung on high, 

Like the flag it flutters by, 
Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky. 



the drum! 

There is some 

Intonation in thy grum 
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, 
As we hear, 

Through the clear 

And unclouded atmosphere, 
Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear! 



71 



McFEETERS' FOURTH 

T T was needless to say 'twas a glorious day, 

■*■ And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way 

That our Forefathers had since the hour of the birth 

Of this most patriotic republic on earth ! 

But 'twas justice, of course, to admit that the sight 

Of the old Stars-and-Stripes was a thing of delight 

In the eyes of a fellow, however he tried 

To look on the day with a dignified pride 

That meant not to brook any turbulent glee 

Or riotous flourish of loud jubilee ! 



So argued McFeeters, all grim and severe, 
Who the long night before, with a feeling of fear, 
Had slumbered but fitfully, hearing the swish 
Of the sky-rocket over his roof, with the wish 
That the boy-fiend who fired it were fast to the end 
Of the stick to forever and ever ascend! 
Or to hopelessly ask why the boy with the horn 
And its horrible havoc had ever been born! 
Or to wish, in his wakefulness, staring aghast, 
That this Fourth of July were as dead as the last ! 

72 



McFEETERS' FOURTH 

So, yesterday morning, McFeeters arose, 
With a fire in his eyes, and a cold in his nose, 
And a guttural voice in appropriate key 
With a temper as gruff as a temper could be. 
He growled at the servant he met on the stair, 
Because he was whistling a national air, 
And he growled at the maid on the balcony, who 
Stood enrapt with the tune of "The Red-White-and- 

Blue" 
That a band was discoursing like mad in the street, 
With drumsticks that banged, and with cymbals that 

beat. 



And he growled at his wife, as she buttoned his vest, 
And applausively pinned a rosette on his breast 
Of the national colors, and lured from his purse 
Some change for the boys — for fire-crackers — or 

worse ; 
And she pointed with pride to a soldier in blue 
In a frame on the wall, and the colors there, too ; 
And he felt, as he looked on the features, the glow 
The painter found there twenty long years ago, 
And a passionate thrill in his breast, as he felt 
Instinctively round for the sword in his belt. 



What was it that hung like a mist o'er the room? — 
The tumult without — and the music — the boom 
Of the cannon — the blare of the bugle and fife? — 
No matter ! — McFeeters was kissing his wife, 

73 



McFEETERS' FOURTH 

And laughing and crying and waving his hat 
Like a genuine soldier, and crazy, at that! 
— Was it needless to say 'twas a glorious day 
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way 
That our Forefathers had since the hour of the birth 
Of this most patriotic republic on earth? 



74 



THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR 

I WAS for Union — you, ag'in' it. 
Tears like, to me, each side was winner, 
Lookin' at now and all 'at's in it. 
Le' 's go to dinner. 

Le' 's kind o' jes' set down together 
And do some pardnership forgittin' — 
Talk, say, for instunce, 'bout the weather, 
Or somepin' fittin'. 

The war, you know, 's all done and ended, 
And ain't changed no p'ints o' the compass; 
Both North and South the health's jes' splendid 
As 'fore the rumpus. 

The old farms and the old plantations 
Still ockipies the'r old positions. 
Le' 's git back to old situations 
And old ambitions. 

Le' 's let up on this blame', infernal 
Tongue-lashin' and lap- jacket vauntin', 
And git back home to the eternal 
Ca'm we're a-wantin\ 

75 



THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR 



Peace kind o' sort o' suits my diet — 
When women does my cookin' for me; 
Ther' wasn't overly much pie et 
Durin' the army. 



76 



DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE 

IT'S lonesome — sorto' lonesome, — it's a Sund'y- 
day, to me, 
It 'pears-like — more'n any day I nearly ever see! — 
Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-fmtterin' in 

the air, 
On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lily thare. 



They say, though, Decoration Day is giner'ly 

observed 
'Most ev'rywheres — espeshally by soldier-boys 

that's served. — 
But me and Mother's never went — we seldom git 

away, — 
In p'int o' fact, we're alius home on Decoration 

Bay. 



They say the old boys marches through the streets 

in colum's grand, 
A-follerin' the old war-tunes they're playin' on the 

band — 
And citizuns all jinin' in — and little childern, too — 
All marchin', under shelter of the old Eed White 

and Blue. — 

77 



DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE 

With roses! roses! roses! — ev'rybody in the 

town ! — 
And crowds o' little girls in white, jest fairly loaded 

down ! — 
Oh ! don 't The Boys know it, from theyr camp 

acrost the hill? — 
Don't they see theyr com'rads comin , and the old 

flag wavin' still? 



Oh! can't they hear the bngul and the rattle of the 
drum ? — 

Ain 't they no way under heavens they can rickollect 
ns some? 

Ain't they no way we can coax 'em, through the 
roses, jest to say 

They know that ev'ry day on earth's theyr Decora- 
tion Day? 



We've tried that — me and Mother, — whare Elias 

takes his rest, 
In the orchurd — in his uniform, and hands acrost 

his brest, 
And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplin' in the 

breeze 
Above his grave — and over that, — the robin in the 

trees! 



78 



DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE 

And yit it's lonesome — lonesome! — It's a Sund'y- 

day, to me, 
It 'pears-like — more 'n any day I nearly ever see ! — 
Still, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-fmtterin' 

in the air, • 
On ev'ry soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lily thare. 



79 



A PEACE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

HP HERE'S a Voice across the Nation like a 
-■■ mighty ocean-hail, 
Borne up from out the Southward as the seas before 

the gale; 
Its breath is in the streaming Flag and in the flying 

sail — 

As we go sailing on. 



'Tis a Voice that we remember — ere its summons 

soothed as now — 
When it rang in battle-challenge, and we answered 

vow with vow, — 
With roar of gun and hiss of sword and crash of 
prow and prow, 

As we went sailing on. 



Our hope sank, even as we saw the sun sink faint 
and far, — 

The Ship of State went groping through the blind- 
ing smoke of War — 

Through blackest midnight lurching, all uncheered 
of moon or star, 

Yet sailing — sailing on, 

80 



A PEACE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

As One who spake the dead awake, with life-blood 

leaping warm — 
Who walked the troubled waters, all unscathed, in 

mortal form, — 
We felt our Pilot's presence with His hand upon the 

storm, 

As we went sailing on. 



Voice of passion lulled to peace, this dawning of 

To-day — 
Voices twain now blent as one, ye sing all fears 

away, 
Since foe and foe are friends, and lo ! the Lord, as 

glad as they. — 

He sends us sailing on. 



81 



THE BOY PATRIOT 

1WANT to be a Soldier!— 
A Soldier!— 
A Soldier ! — 
I want to be a Soldier, with a saber in my hand 
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder, 
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the 

band; 
I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap 

her wings 
While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers 
and sings; 
I want to hear the tramp and jar 

Of patriots a million, 
As gaily dancing off to war 
As dancing a cotillion. 



I want to be a Soldier! — 

A Soldier! — 

A Soldier! — 
I want to be a Soldier, with a saber in my hand 
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder, 
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of 
the band, 

82 



THE BOY PATRIOT 

I want to see the battle ! — 

The battle!— 
The battle !— 
I want to see the battle, and be in it to the end;— 
I want to hear the cannon clear their throats and 

catch the prattle 
Of all the pretty compliments the enemy can send! — 
And then I know my wits will go, — and where I 

shouldn't be — 
Well, there's the spot, in any fight, that you may 
search for me. 

So, when our foes have had their fill, 

Though I'm among the dying, 
To see The Old Flag flying still, 
I'll laugh to leave her flying! 



I want to be a Soldier! — 

A Soldier! — 
A Soldier! — 
I want to be a Soldier, with a saber in my hand 
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder, 
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of 
the band. 



83 



A CHILD'S HOME— LONG AGO 

THE terse old maxim of the poet's pen, 
" What constitutes a state? High-minded men/' 
Holds such a wealth of truth, when one reflects, 
It seems more like a sermon than a text. 
Yet looking dimly backward o 'er the years 
Where first the face of progress, through our tears, 
Smiles on us, where within the forest gloom 
The bud of Indiana bursts in bloom ; 
We can but see, from Lake of Michigan, 
To where Ohio rolls, the work of man — 
From where our eastern boundary-line is pressed, 
To where the Wabash revels on the west ; 
A broad expanse of fair and fertile land, 
Like some rich landscape, from a master's hand, 
That in its rustic frame, we well might call 
The fairest picture on Columbia's wall — 
A picture now — a masterpiece divine, 
That, ere the artist's hand in its design 
Had traced this loveliness, was but a blot 
Of ugly pigment on a barren spot — 
A blur of color on a hueless ground 
Where scarce a hint of beauty could be found. 
But patiently the hand of labor wrought, 
And from each touch new inspiration caught ; 
Toiled on through disadvantages untold, 
And at each onward step found firmer hold, 

84 



A CHILD'S HOME— LONG AGO 

And obstacles that threatened long delay 
He climbed above and went upon his way, 
Until at last, exulting, he could see 
The sweet reward of patient industry; 
And beauties he had hardly dared to dream, 
In hill and vale, and cliff and winding stream, 
Spread out before his vision, till the soul 
Within him seemed to leap beyond control, 
And hover over lands the genii made 
Of sifted sunshine and of dew-washed shade. 

And who, indeed, that loves his native state, 
Has not a heart to throb and palpitate 
With ecstasy, as o 'er her wintry past, 
He sees the sun of summer dawn at last, 
And catches, through the misty shower of light, 
Dim glimpses of the orchard's bloom of white, 
And fields beyond where, waving empty sleeves, 
The "scarecrow" beckons to the feathered thieves 
That perch, and perk their nimble heads away, 
And flit away with harsh, discordant cry, 
Or shading with his hand, his dazzled eyes, 
Looks out across the deadened paradise, 
Where wild flowers blossom, and the ivy clings, 
And from the ruined oak the grapevine swings, 
While high above upon the leafless tree 
The red-head drummer beats his reveille, 
And, like an army thronging at the sound, 
The soldier corn-stalks on their battle-ground 
March on to harvest victories, and flaunt 
Their banners o'er the battlements of want! 

83 



A CHILD'S HOME—LONG AGO 

And musing thus to-day, the pioneer 

Whose brawny arm has grubbed a pathway here, 

Stands, haply, with his vision backward turned 

To where the log-heap of the past was burned, 

And sees again, as in some shadowy dream, 

The wild deer bending o 'er the hidden stream, 

Or sniffing, with his antlers lifted high, 

The gawky crane, as he comes trailing by, 

And drops in shallow tides below to wade 

On tilting legs through dusky depths of shade, 

While just across the glossy otter slips 

Like some wet shadow 'neath the ripple's lips 

As, drifting from the thicket-hid bayou, 

The wild duck paddles past his rendezvous, 

And overhead the beech and sycamore, 

That lean their giant forms from either shore, 

Clasp hands and bow their heads, as though to bless 

In whispered prayer the sleeping wilderness. 

A scene of such magnificent expanse 

Of nameless grandeur that the utterance 

Of even feathered orators is faint. 

For here the dove's most melancholy plaint 

Invokes no echo, and the killdeer 's call 

Swoons in the murmur of the waterfall 

That, faint and far away and undefined, 

Falls like a ghost of sound upon the mind. 

The voice of nature 's very self drops low, 

As though she whispered of the long ago, 

When down the wandering stream the rude canoe 

Of some lone trapper glided into view, 



86 



A CHILD'S HOME— LONG AGO 

AnS loitered down the watery path that led 

Through forest depths that only knew the tread 

Of savage beasts ; and wild barbarians 

That skulked about with blood upon their hands 

And murder in their hearts. The light of day 

Might barely pierce the gloominess that lay 

Like some dark pall across the water's face, 

And folded all the land in its embrace ; 

The panther's whimper, and the bear's low growl— 

The snake's sharp rattle, and the wolf's wild howl 

The owl's grim chuckle, as it rose and fell 

In alternation with the Indian's yell, 

Made fitting prelude for the gory plays 

That were enacted in the early days. 

But fancy, soaring o 'er the storm of grief 
Like that lone bird that brought the olive leaf, 
Brings only peace — an amulet whose spell 
Works stranger marvels than the tongue can tell — 
For o'er the vision, like a mirage, falls 
The old log cabin with its dingy walls, 
And crippled chimney with its crutch-like prop 
Beneath a sagging shoulder at the top : 
The coonskin battened fast on either side — 
The wisps of leaf -tobacco — "cut-and-dried"; 
The yellow strands of quartered apples, hung 
In rich festoons that tangle in among 
The morning-glory vines that clamber o 'er 
The little clapboard roof above the door : 
The old well-sweep that drops a courtesy 
To every thirsting soul so graciously, 

87 



A CHILD'S HOME— LONG AGO 

The stranger, as lie drains the dripping gourd, 
Intuitively murmurs, * ' Thank the Lord ! ' ' 
Again through mists of memory arise 
The simple scenes of home before the eyes : — 
The happy mother, humming, with her wheel, 
The dear old melodies that used to steal 
So drowsily upon the summer air, 
The house-dog hid his bone, forgot his care, 
And nestled at her feet, to dream, perchance, 
Some cooling dream of winter-time romance : 
The square of sunshine through the open door 
That notched its edge across the puncheon floor, 
And made a golden coverlet whereon 
The god of slumber had a picture drawn 
Of Babyhood, in all the loveliness 
Of dimpled cheek and limb and linsey dress : 
The bough-filled fire-place, and the mantel wide, 
Its fire-scorched ankles stretched on either side, 
Where, perched upon its shoulders 'neath the joist, 
The old clock hiccoughed, harsh and husky-voiced, 
And snarled the premonition, dire and dread, 
When it should hammer Time upon the head : 
Tomatoes, red and yellow, in a row, 
Preserved not then for diet, but for show, — 
Like rare and precious jewels in the rough 
Whose worth was not appraised at half enough : 
The jars of jelly, with their dusty tops ; 
The bunch of pennyroyal ; the cordial drops ; 
The flask of camphor, and the vial of squills, 
The box of buttons, garden-seeds, and pills ; 



88 



A CHILD'S HOME—LONG AGO 

And, ending all the mantel's bric-a-brac, 

The old, time-honored "Family Almanack." 

And Memory, with a mother 's touch of love, 

Climbs with us to the dusky loft above, 

Where drowsily we trail our fingers in 

The mealy treasures of the harvest bin ; 

And, feeling with our hands the open track, 

We pat the bag of barley on the back ; 

And, groping onward through the mellow gloom, 

We catch the hidden apple 's faint perfume, 

And, mingling with it, fragrant hints of pear 

And musky melon ripening somewhere. 

Again we stretch our limbs upon the bed 

Where first our simple childish prayers were said ; 

And while, without, the gallant cricket trills 

A challenge to the solemn whippoorwills, 

And, filing on the chorus with his glee, 

The katydid whets all the harmony 

To feather-edge of incoherent song, 

We drop asleep, and peacefully along 

The current of our dreams we glide away 

To the dim harbor of another day, 

Where brown toil waits for us, and where labor 

stands 
To welcome us with rough and horny hands. 

And who will mock the rude, unpolished ways 
That swayed us in the good old-fashioned days 
When labor wore the badge of manhood, set 
Upon his tawny brow in pearls of sweat? 

89 



A CHILD'S HOME— LONG AGO 

Who dares to-day to turn a scornful eye 

On labor in his swarthy majesty! 

Or wreathe about his lips the sneer of pride 

Where brawny toil stands towering at his side 1 

By industry alone we gauge the worth 

Of all the richer nations of the earth ; 

And side by side with honesty and toil 

Prosperity walks round the furrowed soil 

That belts the world, and o'er the ocean ledge 

Tilts up the horn of plenty on its edge. 

'Tis not the subject fawning to the king, 

'Tis not the citizen, low cowering 

Before the throne of state. — 'Twas God's intent 

Each man should be a king — a president ; 

And while through human veins the blood of pride 

Shall ebb and flow in Labor's rolling tide, 

The brow of toil shall wear the diadem, 

And justice gleaming there, the central gem, 

Shall radiate the time when we shall see 

Each man rewarded as his works shall be. 

Thank God for this bright promise ! Lift the voice 

Till all the waiting multitudes rejoice ; 

Eeach out across the sea and clap your hands 

Till voices waken out of foreign lands 

To join the song, while listening Heaven waits 

To roll an answering anthem through the gates. 



90 



